Being HumanChapter 8
The endless banality of the grey, thick forest was disturbed only by the sounds of its foreign intruders. The constant scrape of wood being dragged along the ground served as a backing for the feet marching through the undergrowth, out of sync. It was like music being played by a trio with no souls. Sometimes when Rachele looked back at the mattress she was pulling all she could see upon it was death. It was hard to articulate what death looked like exactly, except that it was bloody and...